


The Man in the Iron Collar

by Mamaorion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Circus, Fluff, Flying, H.I.A.T.U.S., Healer John, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Made For Each Other, Magical Realism, Mind-reader Sherlock, alternate first meeting, faerie - Freeform, hiatusubmission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 21:16:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11261166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mamaorion/pseuds/Mamaorion
Summary: Separated by The Wall, the world of Men and the world of Faerie have been at war for time beyond time. As with any ancient war, the reason for enmity fades and occasionally a half-blood is born, but they are hidden and shunned on both sides of the Wall.Magically-trained healer and solider, Dr. John Watson is fascinated with the Faerie, hunting for ancient lore, learning their illegal magic, and haunting circuses in search of half-bloods. Today, he finally finds one, and everything changes.





	The Man in the Iron Collar

**Author's Note:**

> Written for H.I.A.T.U.S. monthly Johnlock fanfic prompt: Elemental Magic  
> Check out @hiatustory on tumblr: https://hiatustory.tumblr.com/ 
> 
> I love magical realism. I was giddy when H.I.A.T.U.S released this prompt. It was so much fun to write and [EDIT] WILL lead to more... currently in the works. I hope you enjoy it!

 

“A mind reader? You’re kidding.”

“Oh come on, it sounds fun.”

“It’s a load of _rubbish_ , Watson.”

“What, afraid she’ll see your girl running around on you?”

“I don’t need a bloody psychic to tell me that.”

“Come _on_.”

“Fine, but you owe me a pint for this.”

“Done.”

The two soldiers, conspicuous in grey off-duty jumpsuits in the colorful circus crowd, wavered outside a small, grubby tent striped like a peppermint. A peeling wooden sign stood outside the door advertising, in swirling violet letters, the unparalleled abilities of the medium within.

“You first,” said John, elbowing Kinsey, who was staring vaguely above the crowd at the bare-breasted stilt walkers, their skin patterned with intricate henna. One had conjured streamers of glitter that followed in her wake, silvery sparks snapping from her fingertips. “Go _on_ , Major, that’s an order.” John chuckled. The fresh-faced young Kinsey was his superior due to a particularly fortunate raid against the Faerie. Unusually, half the platoon had _not_ been driven mad by dreams or turned into donkeys. But away from the rank and file of military life, Kinsey’s youth glared and John couldn’t help having a bit of fun at his expense. _Mind reader, indeed._

“Fine,” Kinsey sighed, annoyed, pulling his gaze from the women towering above them, and shouldered his way through the flap of the tent. John smiled wryly and put his ear against the rough canvas to eavesdrop, but the crowd was too loud to make anything out.

He gave it up and snagged a paper cone of popcorn off a hawker’s tray, tossing a coin to him which the man bit, then nodded his thanks. John passed the minutes outside the tent letting his eyes wander over the crowd, scanning the rabble for half-bloods, as he always did at a circus.

It was rumored that circuses attracted half-bloods, as was common with society’s outcasts. John wasn’t sure what to look for, he just assumed he’d know one when he saw one. When not disguised by glamors, the Faerie themselves were, according to the best of the military’s reconnaissance, still quite humanoid. Long of limb, violet eyes, a touch of feline in their features. Ever since he had heard the rumor as a boy, John had never missed a circus if it came through town.

John might now have said his preoccupation with the Faerie was official military business. It would earn him a good mark to report a half-blood to his superiors. There were long, tense periods between raids on the The Wall – it took their experts months to locate it again after an attack – and a half-blood could keep them occupied with interrogations and experiments to learn all they could about their ancient enemy.

But he wasn’t there on official business, he was off duty, having a lark. The Faerie were his own secret curiosity – and not one he could have discussed with the likes of Kinsey. It was more than a little socially unacceptable, especially as a military man, but John couldn’t help it. Their magic was ancient and beautiful – what little he could find to study. They were forbidden. They were _fascinating._

He was only halfway through his cone of popcorn when the canvas flap was roughly pulled aside and Kinsey stumbled out, ashen faced.

“Eh, mate, you alright?” John asked, stepping close, brow furrowed. He lightly pressed the pads of his fingers against Kinsey’s temple and read his vitals with a brief pulse of energy _. Heart rate elevated, adrenaline racing, blood pressure too high, but no sign of overt distress._ John took his hand away and shook his fingers to extinguish the connection.

“I… I’m turning in, Doc.”

“You look like you just saw a ghost, mate. Here, let me get you some water.” He led Kinsey to a large barrel propped up on logs over the muddy, sawdust-strewn ground. He drew him a paper cup of tepid water. Kinsey drank it, then several more.

“There,” said John soothingly. “Bit more color coming back to your face. You get a nasty shock in there or something?”

“Don’t go in there, John.” Kinsey’s eyes were wide and frightened.

“Why, what’d she do to you?” The young Major avoided his eyes.

“Look, I’m knackered.” Kinsey scrubbed at his face. “You stay, enjoy yourself. That’s an _order_ , Captain.” He attempted a wry grin, but it soured on his stricken face.

Before John could protest further, Kinsey strode away and melted into the crowd.

“Guess I just saved myself the price of a pint,” he muttered to himself. John’s gaze settled on the striped tent. Pursing his lips in thought, his stomach squeezing with a thrill, he gave a small decisive nod, strode to the tent, and lifted the flap.

 …  
  
It was dim and uncomfortably warm inside. The noise of the crowd was muted the moment the tent flap fell behind him. John blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust, groping his way to the little table where a hunched, hooded figure was sitting. John eased onto a small wooden stool across the table and pressed a silver onto the worn sateen tablecloth.

The medium did not move, did not speak. As John’s eyes began to adjust, he glimpsed a pale chin and full lips just visible beneath the hood. _Mm, might be a pretty one, then._

“My future, if you please,” John said too-loudly into the silence. It stretched on for several more moments. John scowled at the motionless medium and irritably plucked up his silver. Pretty or not, he wasn’t going to sit and be mocked.

“Right then, not sure what you did to terrify my mate so badly, but this is bullocks.” As John stood to leave, the medium spoke.

“Do sit, Captain.”

The deep baritone voice startled him. John glanced down at his chest where his rank would usually have been clearly displayed, but was reassured that he was still in obscure plainclothes. He scowled.

“My mate told you that, then?”

“Your oaf of a comrade did not utter three words during the time he was here. Please, sit. I will Read Your Past, Your Present, Your Future, for I Have the Gift of Seeing and None Can Live Nor Die as Hide Their True Selves from Me.”

It sounded flat and rehearsed, but it was much more what John was going for, so he sat down with a huff on his stool and waited for the little show to begin.

He was expecting more rehearsed hokum and vague charlatan predictions, but the medium held the silence. Suddenly, the man tossed back the hood, leaned across the table, and fixed John with an intense stare.

Unnerved, John leaned back on his stool while he endured the piercing gaze. The medium was indeed a man, his features all long and gaunt, curly black hair, eyes an unnerving glass-green. Attractive in a too-lean way. The medium began to speak – the words pouring out of him, all rehearsed pomp discarded for a breathless, earnest rush of disjointed information.

“Your mum’s birthday’s next week. You abhor clams, loved a woman older than you and a man with ginger hair – you don’t love either of them anymore. You’re traditional magic, recognized in childhood, institutionally trained as an Arranger. You manipulate on a molecular level. Your expertise is the human form. You can knit the fibers of a wound, ignite the electricity of nerves to re-start a heart, expel water from lungs and, with much effort and expense of energy, re-balance a body out of a diseased state. You cannot propel energy in combat, kindle a tinder-less fire, fool the eye, or fly. You’ve been in the military for three years. You have a sister back home who doesn’t hate you as much as you think, you should write her. Your best red socks are not in fact lost, but taken by a covetous washer-whelp–”

John blinked with astonishment at the random list of perfectly accurate facts. Awe and incredulity wrestled in his mind. Kinsey could have divulged some of it, certainly, but _a man with ginger hair,_ and _his missing red socks?_ His curiosity burned brighter. The medium drew out a long pale hand from the folds of his cloak and held it out to John, waiting.

“Your hand.”

John hesitated. He never gave his hand out lightly. Arrangers didn’t even shake hands, they bowed. The hand was a delicate instrument, one that could pry deeply into personal space with the lightest of touch. As an Arranger, you kept your hands to yourself.

“Dr. Watson, you have nothing to fear,” the medium said tersely, “I only intend to press my palm to yours to clarify my psychic connection, nothing else.” John was startled at being addressed by his name – but then, Kinsey must have said something. He pressed his right palm against the medium’s. His own palm was clammy and hot, the medium’s smooth and cool. John felt a buzzing pulse between their hands. To his surprise, a tiny purple flicker of lightning snaked around their fingers, fizzling out with a pop.

The medium caught his breath. His hand shivered, nearly jerked away, then pressed against John’s more firmly.

John’s heart was pounding in his ears. While the medium’s fingers were not an ideal location to read vitals, John could perceive his elevated heart rate. Suddenly, the man pulled away, and in a rush, leapt to his feet to reach John across the small table. Before John could react, the medium had pressed his fingertips against John’s temple. John flinched back, but the medium moved smoothly with him, maintaining contact.

“You said just the hand,” John protested quietly, more curious than alarmed.

“That’s when I thought you were boring.”

The man narrowed his eyes and John could not help but be fascinated by another practitioner at work, noticing the varying levels of pressure the medium applied to each fingertip. He knew he should likely be fearing for his safety, but something in his gut told him otherwise.

The medium blinked as if leaving a trance, then, improbably, smiled. It was a smile of such joy that John found himself grinning back at him, then checked himself and pulled it into a pursed scowl.

“ _Interesting_. Yes, _very_ interesting. Unlike your fellow acolytes, you chose to further your study in the forbidden manipulation of base elements such as iron, wood, and silver.” The medium’s eyes sparkled. “You, John Watson, are a sight for sore eyes.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” John blustered, pulling away from the man’s touch and standing, rubbing at the faint buzzing sensation where the medium’s fingertips had made contact with his scalp. “How can you _possibly_ know that? No one knows that. It’s… it’s not acceptable in my field to be… _dabbling_ with that sort of magic.”

“Yet you did. Bit risky, isn’t it, John?”

“Look, I don’t know how you did that, but if you’re going to toss my name around, at least have the decency to tell me yours.”

“Sherlock,” the medium said immediately, still staring almost hungrily at John.

“ _How–_ ”

“I’ll tell you, if you agree to help me with a certain _project_.”

John shook his head and grinned with disbelief. “What kind of a game is this? How much of my silver are you after?”

“None of it. What I need, Doctor, is a man of your particular _talents_.” Sherlock stood quickly and poked his head out of the tent flap, scanned the crowd, then hastily sat again across from John, legs jumping with agitation. “There isn’t much time. If my calculations are correct, and they always are, we have exactly seven minutes before the elephants break loose.”

“ _Elephants?”_

“Dr. Watson. Focus, please.” Sherlock suddenly flipped back his cape, exposing a collar of solid iron around his throat. John sucked in his breath at the sight of it. He knew exactly what it was.

“You… you’re half-blood. My god, I’ve always wanted…” John stammered with awe.

“Yes, I know. I saw it all in your mind.”

John grinned. It should have felt like the worst invasion of his privacy, but it was too marvelous. Here it was, a true connection to the Faerie. He'd read about their power to read minds, but it was all very obscure and theoretical.

“So this – all this,” John waved his hand vaguely in the air around his head, “is _wild_ magic.”

“Yes. I have never been trained. I can perceive with a touch, knowing the mind and manner of a being.”

“That’s _brilliant._ ”

Sherlock blinked. “Really?”

“What else can you do?”

“I... I can fly with a great expense of energy.”

John let out a little whoop of joy. “How’d you end up here? In _that_?” John reached out and tapped at the collar. It was icy cold to the touch. He shivered at the thought of it against his own throat.

“I… ran away from home when I was fifteen. They had no idea what to do with their sordid little _accident_. I couldn’t leave the grounds, rarely was allowed to even go outside. They loved me well enough – my mother was from over the Wall, but I never met her. My grandmother, wholly human, helped me learn to control the wild magic in my veins. She was sympathetic. Like you.” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled as he considered John, whose stomach gave a strange flip beneath his gaze.

“My elder half-brother was outlandishly protective of me, but jealous, too. When my Gran died, he and my father had no notion of what to do with me. I was as good as a prisoner. So I put them into a week of sleep and left. The first crossroad I came to, I met a traveling circus and signed on as their mind reader. I had only intended to travel somewhere new and interesting, but the circus boss was wise to my hidden magic – Gran never did show me how to make a proper glamor. He knew he could own me if he captured me.” He shrugged. “It’s iron law. He has not been unkind, but I am _so_ weary of being caged. I want to _fly_ , John.”

“But surely you were more powerful than him,” John breathed, caught up in the story.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He got me drunk. I didn’t know I was especially sensitive to the effects. When I awoke…” he tapped his fingernails against the collar. “I’ve been here five years, _waiting_ for my chance. And here you are. _Here you are._ Please. Please, John, before it’s too late, break my collar. Set me free.”

John was on his feet, pulling his stool directly across from Sherlock as if he were preparing for a wellness checkup. Their knees brushed. John leaned close to inspect the cuff and smelled cloves on Sherlock’s skin. The iron collar was seamless, rusty red in patches. The skin beneath it was rough and raw. There was no question in his mind. He would free this half-blood. He would help him. He wondered if he'd been enthralled. Perhaps, he decided, but not by Faerie magic.

John’s fingers were on the cuff, Sherlock watching him carefully, wide-eyed as John began to hum a certain note and harmonize with it in his throat. It was old, rough, wild magic – uncouth, piratical, downright illegal, and John loved it. Loved the sensation of the molecules arranging into sweet, simple rows as the familiar atoms responded to the electrical charge in his cells, bent to his will.

With a pop, the collar cracked into two pieces and fell away from Sherlock’s throat and onto the dirt floor. Sherlock's breath rushed out with relief – John could feel it on his face, they were so close. John blinked his eyes open, snapping out of the trance, and drew a shuddery breath. He hadn’t used the old magic in ages and it had drained him. He found his forehead pressed against Sherlock’s and pulled away abruptly, mumbling an apology, cheeks aflame. His stomach twisted as he took in the freshly uncovered skin of Sherlock's throat. Ignoring his embarrassment, he gently pressed his fingertips to the sores and scabs that had chafed beneath the iron, deftly regenerating the distressed cells into smooth, healthy skin.

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered. He brushed his fingers against the whole, unrestrained skin of his throat, his face radiating joy and relief. “Dr. Watson–”

“John.”

“John,” he smiled, a little shyly. “You have done me the greatest kindness. Though I only carry half the blood of the Faerie, I will still provide you a boon for your service. What will it be?”

“You don’t owe me anything–” John stammered. “Finding you – meeting you – it was enough.”

 _And what now?_ God, what would he do ? Go back and wait like a good army doctor for the next raid to bring him a wave of injuries to tend? Keep searching the circuses for another glimpse? Hunt through libraries for arcane texts? If John was honest with himself, the sole reason he’d joined the military was just to get closer to the Faerie. 

“Meeting me? Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock sneered impatiently. “I know your mind. A glimpse over the Wall, then? You couldn’t possibly say no.”

“ _Could_ you?” John goggled.

“I have ways of finding it, though I am just as unwelcome there as here. It would be dangerous.”

“More welcome than me. My god, listen to me, this is madness!”

Sherlock gave John a thoughtful look.

“You do know, John, what happens when Faerie blood meets blood,” he said with a trace of a laughter in his words.

John scowled, thinking over the few ancient, illegal books he’d poured over. He’d never read that detail and shook his head.

“A kinetic burst of recognition occurs, a chemical reaction between like-magical-substances. It looks a bit like a tiny pulse of lightning playing about the point of contact.”

John stared at him, dumbfounded.

“You’re saying….” he stammered.

“Mm hm,” hummed Sherlock, grinning playfully.

“ _I have Faerie blood_?”

“You do. Father’s side, if I’m not mistaken. The old magic is latent, but stronger than I would expect. So. What do you say?”

John grinned. It was ridiculous. Preposterous. He should tell himself he was being scammed and run, but something in him knew Sherlock was telling the truth.

“Good. Yes, I mean – this is brilliant. But what about your captor? How will you escape? Are we leaving now?”

Sherlock glanced down at his watch.

“Mm _… Now_.”

Sherlock was on his feet, pulling John by the hand, toppling over the stools. Sherlock yanked up the side of the tent, John following on his heels. Immediately he knew something was wrong. The mumble-jumble of the crowd’s voice was tinged with alarm. From nearby, he heard what could only have been the trumpet of an elephant.

The crowd swelled with screams and Sherlock abruptly pulled John in the other direction, ducking between larger tents, food stalls and finally slipping behind the billowing mainstage tent. People were running now; vendors were craning their necks to see the fuss. John ran to keep up, their hands still tightly clasped. He could feel Sherlock’s accelerated pulse, the adrenaline coursing, the buzz of recognition between their blood.

“How did you know – with the elephant–“ John panted.

“He's an excellent conversationalist,” Sherlock said over his shoulder, “Owed me a favor. Broke his chain, started a bit of a stampede on my account. He’s not dangerous.”

“You knew? That all this would happen?” John asked with incredulous awe.

“Of course. Well, more or less. I knew I’d have the chance today, but the exact means were not clear until we touched palms.”

“That’s amazing – I – _oh hell-”_

A young elephant barreled through a nearby tent, collapsing it in a heap of canvas and rope. Sherlock pushed him roughly out of the way, pressing him against a stall wall, their faces close, breath coming in gasps. Sherlock’s eyes sparkled. John was very aware of the blood tint of his lips in his flushed face.

“Of course, the other elephants are getting caught up in the fun. Best to get a bit more elevation.”

John’s stomach gripped with a thrill as he realized what Sherlock was implying. But Sherlock didn’t move. He ducked his chin and looked suddenly contrite. With a shake of his head, Sherlock leaned close, speaking into his ear so John could hear him over the chaos of the crowd, screaming and running around their tiny island of calm.

“John, we’ve only just met. Are you sure you want to do this? I saw into your mind. I saw your dissatisfaction, your curiosity. But you have a life there, a place, respect, a duty. I’m an outcast, running is what I do. You could keep hiding in plain sight, live a normal life. Are you sure you want to come with me, throw that all away?”

John looked from one glass-green eye to the next for several heartbeats. He bit his lip, tracing one fingertip along the edge of Sherlock’s bare neck. The delicate touch on the newly-freed skin made Sherlock squeeze his eyes shut and shiver. John felt it rush through his fingertips like a wave of carbonation.

“Sherlock, I may be mad,” he said, feeling giddy at the insanity of what he was about to say, “but I’ve never felt more sure of anything in my life.”

“You’re _absolutely_ certain.”

John pulled Sherlock’s hand up to place the fingertips on his temple.

“Look for yourself. Where you go, I follow.”

Sherlock grinned at him, his fingers straying on his temple for longer than needed. Then, renewing his grip on John’s hand, he pushed up from the dusty ground as if to leap.

But rather than settling back down to earth, Sherlock rose with the ease and speed of an eagle. The chaos of the circus fell away. A pulse of energy crackled between their hands. Whooping with the sheer delight of it, John Watson flew along with him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE thanks for the incredibly kind reactions - YES there will be more to this world. Eventually.
> 
>  
> 
> come say hi on tumblr – I'm mamaorion


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